Reblog If You Were Ever Bullied.

Ravenclaw headcanons because there's not enough Ravenclaw on my dash

Padma sneaking Parvati into Ravenclaw Tower all the time and letting her stay in her dorm room because Parvati is allergic to Crookshanks.

Anthony and Terry arguing over which twin is who because they are known to switch ties all the time just to mess with everyone.

Cho organizing parties after every Quidditch match win or lose. Marietta taking care of food and drinks because she has “connections”.

“Connections” meaning she flirts with the Hufflepuffs because they have a secret easy access to the kitchens.

Luna’s things disappearing and then reappearing around the common room two months later. Her shoes tend to pop up elsewhere though.

Luna having thoughtful Saturday afternoon conversations with The Grey Lady about being dead.

Peeves bouncing around the common room for hours every single Tuesday night without fail and as a result the library stays open two hours longer than usual so the Ravenclaws can study.

Anthony spending more time doodling in his notebook than doing classwork and getting caught by McGonagall.

Su Li having an eagle owl that basically hates everyone and the entire Ravenclaw table knows to duck whenever they see it coming through the Great Hall because if you so much as look at it the wrong way it will go for your hair. Or your breakfast.

Terry never making it back to Ravenclaw Tower before curfew and getting into arguments with the Tower knocker because the questions become twice as difficult after curfew to discourage late night stragglers. Clearly it doesn’t work on him.

Every year after CoS, the Ravenclaws make bets on what sort of shit Harry Potter is going to get himself into. His fifth year Padma made a few Galleons off the fact that Loony Lovegood got mixed up in it.

“Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood.”

— Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God (via theclassicsreader)

Keep the flame going for those we have lost to suicide. 

On Anthony Goldstein: Judaism in the Potterverse

[NOTE: I don’t know why I have been obsessed with this for like, the last week, but I have, so here you go. Also, I cannot believe an Anthony Goldstein tag actually exists on Tumblr. When I despair, I am reminded that no one quite obsesses over barely-extant characters like the HP fandom, and I love them for it.]

I find Anthony Goldstein a really fascinating way to think about the way that a Jewish character would fit into the wider spectrum of the magical world as realized by JK Rowling. On the surface, it shouldn’t matter. A Jew should’t be any different from any other minority culture shoved into Ravenclaw (which for what it’s worth seems to be the house that stereotypically high-achieving minorities get sorted into). And yet it’s a question worth thinking about, particularly because Rowling’s world is constructed on notions specifically Christian in character.

This largely boils down to the struggle of Absolute Good vs Absolute Evil, with terms of morality used as alternative names for God and Satan, two independent forces in eternal opposition.  This dichotomy isn’t really a thing in Judaism (Satan is understood as an agent of God). The books are ultimately framed in the context of this struggle, from the world building to Harry’s personal coming of age and fight against Voldemort. It is the very foundation of British Wizarding culture, and to not proscribe to this view would leave someone like Anthony Goldstein permanently alienated.  

Culture clash would arise for Goldstein out of such things as the notion of ‘the Dark Arts.’ In traditional Potterverse, the Dark Arts are 'Dark’ because of some evil that seems inherent in the nature of the creature/spell. The reaction toward such magic is 'defense,’ by either learning how to beat the creatures, or counteract the spellwork. Judaism would not, arguably, make the distinction between good and evil magic in such terms. They would not be mutually exclusive. Magic would be considered evil in the context of its practitioner, not so much in the particulars of a spell or beast. Specifically, magic would be primarily understood as evil if the one who uses it does so to render himself a God-like figure. The ramifications of this would be subtle but significant. Voldemort, for instance, would be evil not because of the magic that he uses, but because he uses it with the intent to elevate himself above the condition of man, and exact powers that humanity should not possess.

This would give rise to the question of whether any sort of magical power is permissible for humans, a question that I could see being an ongoing concern for Goldstein, particularly as he presumably lacks the presence and affirmation of other Jewish wizards in Hogwarts. I could  see Goldstein as someone predisposed to disciplines that require an individual to not see himself or herself in inherent opposition with a type of magic, such as Care of Magical Creatures.

Jewish tradition has a history of magic different from that of medieval Britain, from which a lot of the stock images and sentiment in Potterverse arises. Rather than identifying with Merlin, or the Witches burned at the stake, a Jewish wizard might instead look instead to the 'miracles’ of certain medieval Rabbis, or Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel and the Golem of Prague, or King Solomon. Demons instead of Goblins as the morally ambiguous, humanoid figure. Dybbuks instead of Boggarts. Magic derived from Hebrew as opposed to Latin. There is the potential that Goldstein would find himself, or his family, identifying with a magical past and identity that would have very little to do with that adopted by British wizardry, and by extension Hogwarts as a community and educational establishment. 

Then of course there is the fun of parsing apart the whose and wheres of Anthony Goldstein. Is he a North London Jew?  The next generation of an old British family? Or apart of one of the twentieth century Jewish-immigration waves? Is there a wider Jewish Wizarding community, or is he an anomaly? The last of a tradition? Judaism’s rich tradition of fantasy storytelling and folktales were largely wiped out along with the rural European communities that fostered them, so it wouldn’t be far-fetched that if there was a larger Jewish Wizarding community, it had all but vanished after the Holocaust, and that people like Goldstein represent what remains of a nearly-extinct subculture. 

 Anti-Semitism was historically a feature of elite British boarding schools, and it would not be unreasonable to assume that it would extend to magical ones, especially seeing as there is even less of an established Jewish presence in the magical community than the muggle one.  

Anthony Goldstein would likely never have a place where he could realize himself fully, constantly requiring to either subdue his magic, or his Jewishness in turn. He would find himself alienated on a fundamental level with the British magical community, and would be plagued by doubt when it came to the practice of magic. He would be perceptive and capable at communicating with magical non-humans, and would not see magic as a source of darkness, but the human thirst for power. He would distrust magical assertions of authority, and would find himself burdened with a past that his education has not equipped him to fully understand. 

I bestow upon thee; concept playlists

•classical music to sip tea to while contemplating philosophy and the next marble bust you’ll buy

•stealing books from the Oxford library with friends you never thought you’d find, in the snow, yelling about Ovid, lighting candles

•folky music for sitting on your front porch in the lazy evening sun, surrounded by your closest friends, gazing at a wheat field and singing along with a guitar in your arms

•feeling listless; like you’re walking the world alone, wandering with no destination, held in the arms of the earth and happy with that

•songs to sing LOUD in the car on a road trip going nowhere in particular

•staring out the window of a quaint coffee shop, watching the raindrops cling to the glass and thinking of all the poetry you’re going to write for that lover you left behind

•looking back on a long relationship and realizing all the ups and downs you’ve had as one, suddenly seeing it all in slow motion like a silent film

•laying back on your bed, smiling uncontrollably, thinking of all the beautiful, bucolic times you’re going to have in the sun with that person you can’t stop thinking of

•a rock in your rib-cage, sobbing on the floor, feeling empty; things are coming to an end and you can’t bear to see them go

•the first day of summer – sprawling yourself in the green & vivacious grass, heart shaped sunglasses perched on your nose; youth in all its glory

•songs that bring back days of your old glory, reliving your childhood and your golden days, tracing over the old scars and remembering how you got them

•the smell of old books, melancholy, songs that are so potent with a sort of wild and tragic longing that they’re almost dangerous

•looking out a car window; letting your eyes cling to weeping trees and then letting them snap back again. feeling self centered and tragical.

•literally just songs that remind me of Oscar Wilde and Bosie Douglas

•stuff that i’m listening to right now! always changing, songs that i’m playing on repeat

#ENDviolence

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Let’s get this trending guys! Please reblog

Harry: Let me show you a picture from last night that really upset me.

James: Okay, but in my defense, Teddy bet me five sickles I couldn’t drink all that shampoo.

Harry: That’s not what I-

Harry: You drank shampoo?!

Ut Vidi, Ut Perii

Virgil, Eclogue VIII

“When I saw you, how I perished” 

(via megaerakles)

fleur delacour falling in love with bill weasley because he sees her. his youngest brother looked and went hair-eyes-teeth-legs, thought body, thought sex. her whole life, men have been looking and seeing a thing, not a girl. since she turned thirteen and bud-breasts pressed up against her shirts and boys at school wanted to sit close, men back home lingered too long in hugs.

until she was fifteen she dressed herself in shame before she put any clothes on at all. wore everything a few sizes too big, a few inches too long. draped herself in thick fabrics to hide the body beneath them. never learned that hot eyes on her were the fault of their owners, not her. took the uncomfortable stares and the endless flirtation as a fact of life. was fourteen the first time she dared to say “stop looking!” and met only laughter.

it’s not until she’s nearly sixteen and her sister is turning ten that she sees eyes begin to slide over her and to gabrielle. a friend of their father’s, not even that deep into a bottle of wine, caresses a child-round cheek and murmurs a line from lolita, eyes too bright and lips too dry. gabrielle flickers a panicked glance around the room. that look is so familiar. the same hour fleur switches her baggy sweatshirt for a crop top and rolls her skirt over two inches. 

they will look at her. never at her sister.

at school, the same. at home, the same. slowly, she learns to be less ashamed of the looking. to play to the object they expect her to be. she comes to scotland and she’s the centre of attention. they hear her name pulled out of  the goblet of fire and all anyone wants to talk about is her legs in that skirt. she defeats a dragon and boys whisper all the dirty things they want to do to her just moments after they finish comparing cedric’s charmwork to krum’s reflexes to harry’s flying. they watch her pass in the hallways and their eyes glaze over like she’s a thing put there for their pleasure. 

fleur lifts her head high and lets the stares keep coming.

then she meets bill weasley, and not long after he asks her how she’s doing. asks it like he really means it, like it matters to him that she still gets nervous going around blind corners, that vines make her skin crawl and that the green flash of a hex makes her mind go too blank with fear to defend herself. he brings her a bottle of his favourite whiskey and sinks deep into it, tells her about his life and his job and asks about that night in the maze she doesn’t think about. he doesn’t look at her legs even once.

the next time she brings him her favourite wine and they share it. she’s giggling and silly by the end of the evening and he laughs with her, laughs at her like an equal and not like a thing he wants to fuck. he takes her to her door and leaves her in the care of her friends and he doesn’t do it because he thinks it’ll make scoring easier next time. doesn’t decide his actions based on which will result in sex the fastest.

he doesn’t ask her out until he’s laid himself bare for her, doesn’t even touch her until she reaches down and presses her fingers into his. the first night she feels brave enough to go home with him he keeps her up at the kitchen table until three am telling her all the things he likes about her. her physical appearance doesn’t even make the top one hundred. he says, how much you love your sister. how fierce you look when i take the last croissant. that funny french way you roll your ‘r’s. how you try to tell me jokes but laugh too much to finish them. how you know exactly how many children you want, and the precise shade of blue you’ll use to decorate your nursery. the bravery of you. the way your mind moves so fast sometimes i can’t keep up with it. the fact that i think you could do my job ten times as effectively as i can. they fall asleep on top of his covers, fully clothed, and the next morning fleur has to say yes i want this i am sure that i want this ten times before he starts to undress her.

his family call her all the things she’s heard a million times before. fleur lifts her head high and lets the insults keep coming. his brothers still sometimes look at her like they’ve forgotten to see a person, his mother mutters under her breath about fleur’s lack of suitability, his sister takes every opportunity to express her dislike. they see her beauty and they think they know her. they watch her move and they think she’s nothing more than her body and face. 

but bill weasley sees her. and fleur will not let anything—not a war, not lycanthropy, not a disapproving family—take him away from her.

“She drifted towards the bedroom, on her way to have a bath or take a nap or start a war.”

ya lit meme: ½ antagonists